Andrew was never self-driven or interested in the world like his father. I felt an emotional disconnection from my son, which I blame myself for. I was ignorant when it came to his upbringing. I can’t count how many times I offered to take him fishing, or for a walk around the village to mend that bond between us, but he was never interested. I admit, come his teens, I gave up bothering to ask. Trish did all the hard work of parenting. I was happy to watch her shape him into the teenager that ended up walking out on us.
I have a great relationship with my father; although there is a bigger age gap between us than there is between myself and Andrew – my father used to take me fishing, swimming, walking across Dartmoor, and we had a bond that I hadn’t managed to nurture with my own son. As his father I can only blame myself; I reflect a great deal since he has left. I think about all those ‘what if’ moments, but the past can’t be changed.
Trish used to spoil Andrew rotten. I think this contributed to Andrew being lazy. He always knew that she would allow him to get away with murder, but I came from a family that worked on a farm. I was taught that hard work puts meals on the table, whereas Andrew always just expected it. As father and son, we are so different to each other, but I appreciate it’s a different world for kids now. Everything to entertain children nowadays supports them staying indoors. I was always active, come rain or shine, and couldn’t wait to see my friends after school. Andrew, on the other hand, was so reclusive. Everything he did revolved around isolating himself.
I blame myself for working such long hours. I should have been more encouraging as a father.
A seven-year-old Andrew was the only child that walked the egg-and-spoon race and quit half-way. We argued about him being lazy even when he was younger, but I wanted him to have the drive to succeed. I pushed enough when he was older to make him understand that you cannot grow into a man with responsibilities by sitting in your bedroom. Those computer games weren’t teaching him how to get out into the world and earn a decent living. I could have been more than a taxi driver, but I made that choice when Andrew was born. I am a family man with the values that my parents taught me, that family come first and foremost, and having a wife and child gave me all the success I needed. I wanted Andrew to be more academically driven.
Maybe I pushed too hard?
The house is so quiet without Andrew, and Trish is fast losing her mind. Her drinking, the arguments we have now – we’re giving up, aren’t we?
Andrew disappointed me many times. There are times I regret shouting at him; other times, I tried to get the best from him. I really hope he is out there living a great life.
Did I go too far? Does Trish blame me for his disappearance?
I know she is back on the bottle again because at night I come home to find her sipping yet another glass of vodka. Shaking uncontrollably on the sofa, she blames herself as we both mourn our son. It’s all the ‘what if’s that are bringing us down. With what we are going through, such a heavy train of worrying thoughts every day, how can we live a healthy life?
What do other people know about him?
It is a constant worry where you’re on edge most days. I try not to lose my mind and carry on with daily life, yet Trish is more inward – she struggles more emotionally. I wonder if her most significant problem is not that Andrew disappeared, but her fear that he rejected her, if he deliberately planned to leave. I struggle to understand how a lazy kid with no real drive or ambition can make that decision to just simply vanish. He had no friends that I know of who could support him or hide him.
After Andrew vanished, I teamed up with his college lecturers and we put leaflets through doors in the local area. A small handful of his classmates offered to help and put posters up at his college. Together with Trish, we also contacted all of the public transport services, but no one confirmed any sightings. Although it is possible that Andrew could have been murdered, I always assure Trish that Andrew wanted to leave because, mentally, I know that by clinging on to the hope that he is alive, she will get through this. I want her to accept it was his choice. I hate seeing her this way.
Where the hell did he go and what the fuck was he thinking?
Trish now clings to the hope of finding him or that his return is imminent. I don’t think she will see him any time soon, but I can’t stop thinking about the past; our history, our lives together as a family. I also think about all the times I walked him to school as well as the times I would drive him to college if he missed the bus.
Andrew never understood the sacrifices we made for him, nor was he really ever grateful for everything we provided. I love him, but it was his decision to leave – not ours. His decision is final in my opinion, and both Trish and I have to accept once and for all that our son didn’t want us.
Have I failed him?
I am beginning to doubt if I still love my wife like I used to. I don’t know her since Andrew left us, because she has become too obsessed with the belief that he is on his way home. We never spend much quality time together since Andrew left, and the whole situation has ripped us apart. It is as though we are now two strangers living in the same house. Although I work nights, I tried to make sure we had dinner together at least once a week, but it was to no avail.
Trish and I have the same routines day in and day out. Without Andrew, the house is quieter, yet I can see how she feels she has no purpose. She doesn’t know what to do with herself, and it is crippling her mind. She’s a great mother. All she ever wanted was to become the mother that she never really had herself. Her mother was something of an emotionless witch who despised everyone and anyone that got near her daughter.
When Trish comes in with the cake, I will, of course, tell her how lovely it is and I’ll eat all of it so as not to waste any. I hate wasting food, and she has spent so much time and effort despite the burnt bits. If she starts to sway on her feet, I’ll know she’s opened the vodka in the cupboard. I know she isn’t aware that I know how much she has been drinking lately. I choose to withhold my opinions because the build-up to this day, Andrew’s birthday, has been hard for us both.
Selfishly, Trish cannot accept that I am also dealing with the loss of my son, my only child.
Probably caused by the worry, doubt and guilt, Trish’s memory loss is a minor issue that could grow into a severe cause for concern. There have been many other instances of her forgetfulness, but it’s now starting to escalate outside of the house. I had to rush home from working mid-week because she had gone out shopping and realised that she had forgotten her house keys. The first I knew of her overlooking her keys was a phone call last week from our neighbour Joe.
‘Something’s up with Trish, mate.’
I thought in that instant she had been rushed to the hospital or something far worse – she’d killed herself.
‘What has happened, what the fuck has happened?’ I remember shrieking down the phone. ‘Tell me everything is okay. She hasn’t done anything stupid, mate – has she?’
‘She’s having a panic attack, mate. Looking like she is having a mental breakdown in the village shop.’
It took a little over twenty minutes for me to make my way back to Elmton from the city centre. Joe, fortunately, was in the village store at the same time and was able to witness the fear on her face.
When I got her home, she told me that as she went to the till to pay for the groceries, the realisation that the house keys were not in her pockets struck her. She dropped the shopping all over the floor, placed her hands over her head and tried to run out of the shop while unable to catch her breath. Of course, the village gossips were talking about it for days on end. All she wanted to do was run home to check if the keys were still in the door or scurry around the bushes on the trail back home to see if she dropped them somewhere close by.